


Starved

by fictionalthoughts



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, No Smut, Sleepy Cuddles, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader - Freeform, Touch-Starved, shy!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalthoughts/pseuds/fictionalthoughts
Summary: Mando needs a hug.*also found on my tumblr @fictional-thoughts
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 215





	Starved

It’s late, the moon hovers between the drifting clouds, peaking at midnight and the stars blink in and out through the cold air. Darkness had settled in early, and had you longing for warmth and rest.

So when the Mandalorian returns to the ship — his short journey unknown to you, as he’d taken trips away from the ship before, returning to you in various states you’ve learned not to ask too many questions — you wake, tangled in the heavy blankets, eyes bleary and hair rustled.

He stands in the doorway, leaned one shoulder against the wall, beskar to wood, his helmet tilted as he observes you, looking cute in the darkness, all soft and pretty.

“Had a good day?” You’re sitting up, legs still curled in the pool of warmth under the blanket, the Mandalorian shrugs, and his helmet turns, his ire directed at nothing in particular — like he’s lost in his own reflection of the past.

Sometimes you wonder if Mando forgets he’s wearing the helmet, forgets others can see him. “Wanna talk about it?”

His shoulders lift, following the soft sigh that leaves his chest. Mando doesn’t _really_ want to talk about it — it’s been a bad, long day and he’s exhausted, there’s hints of a dredging headache and a dull tiredness behind his eyes. All thoughts of pulling you close to him in the warmth of the bed call ever so desperately to him.

You’re everything. Understanding and empathetic are in the mix of everything that makes the Mandalorian fall a _little_ faster for you. “We don’t have to talk, if you want.”

He’s nodding and moves to pull away his weapons, slide the sharp beskar down, unclip and pull from him the cape, gloves and sturdy laces of his boots. It’s dark and he knows there’s no need for a blindfold, and in all honesty, he’s aching for something other than blind adoration, he wants your touch to be real and raw, not lead on by his hands telling you where to go.

Finally the helmets off, and in the darkness he’s safe.

All thoughts of the Way, of oaths and swearing his loyalties vanish at the idea of your touch, silky and smooth, he imagines something like sunrises and watching stars glide past, little things that bring the feeling of safety.

The weighted memories of the day fall off his shoulders as he angles himself into the bed next to you, and they could be forgotten forever for all the Mandalorian cares. He feels your eyes on him in the dark, picking out his silhouette through the shades of darkness. And maybe he knows you a little too well but he knows you’re blushing and are all sweet and bashful.

His hand brushes your cheek and yep, you’re warm to the touch, lashes kiss his fingertips and he leans in to kiss you, soft and welcoming, you taste of home and gentle emotions. You pull the blankets up around you and let yourself fall into the softness of the bed, the kiss still tingling on your lips. There’s a shift and Mando’s _finally_ touching you… pulling your body close to his, his arm slides around your waist, fingertips pressed firmly to your side and you take that moment to curl your leg around him.

The Mandalorian sighs again, and his eyes close when he feels your hand brush through his hair, turned with a small curl it tangles in your fingers but that’s okay. There’s a deep yearning that’s tugging at his chest, it begs him to pull you impossibly close, feel your body over him and become something he’s never had — a safe space. He digs himself closer, shifting lower Mando rests upon your chest, steady heartbeat under his ear it’s bringing up a certain kind of relaxation, the stress of the day bleeds out, and all it takes is you.

He draws his fingertips in lazy circles over your collarbone, lets his hands wander over you, and you can feel the roughness of his history etched into him, his scars and worn muscles. You tenderly press a kiss to his head, all sleepy and content and lovely. Your hand grazes over the Mandalorians skin, under the loose confines of his shirt, you feel the softer side of him, the raw and human side, the parts of him that are scarred and once broken. His muscles tense and contract under his warm bronzed skin, and as you continue he grips you a little tighter, silently begging you not to stop. Your hand runs through his hair and down his broad back, each time he breaths deep, finally free of the heavy weights of the world he always carries along with him.

It’s quiet in the bunk room, the silence around it is content, soothing and warm. The Mandalorian caves into your touch, following the feeling of your skin to his. You’re half awake and shy with all the attention, but there’s a bubbling happiness that comes with cuddling close to the Mandalorian, knowing he trusts you enough to feel vulnerable, open to allow you to turn one of his biggest fears and insecurities into something so raw, so pure.

He’d never been held so close, felt as safe with anyone else. There’s no words to be said, and you’re unsure if you could ever manage to say them, tangled in bashfulness that unfortunately comes with the Mandalorian when he’s so close.

Mando’s nearly asleep, head tucked in the space where your neck meets your shoulder, he presses a short kiss to the skin there and feels you shift, turning to face him, you slide your arms around him, switching positions, your weight over him is perfect, warm and comforting. You feel his strong arms circle your back, and for a moment he’s hugging you tight, breathing in your scent and taking every sight and sense he can in — for each second he’s with you passes two times faster, and soon he’ll have to be awake and wear the armour and there’ll be space between you once again.

Mando softens his grip, slides his hands back around your waist, pulling you just a bit closer, your legs tangled in the blankets and in his. There’s still that burning ache, but it’s reduced to something dull, you’ve cured that little bit of desperation, that longing for a reminder that he’s human, that he’s _real_.

There’s soft silence like the world taking a deep breath, filled to the brim with everything good, Mando finds he’s not worried, not basked in memories of the past, of gunfire and bombs and blood, all he can feel is you. You’re curled to his side, heavy and drunk on sleep and he thinks you’re perfect.

Minutes pass and he moves one last time, settles deep into the bed and lets you hold him, run your slim hand through his hair again and play with the fabric of his shirt. You tell him everythings okay with your touch, your fingertips to his jawline, tracing the arches and lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his ear, down the path of his shoulder. Every inch of him longs for more, his body, wrecked from war is exhausted with time. The way you show him you’re his is sweet and hidden, a secret. He’s been starved of all types of softness, gentle emotions and kinder words. But now you’re there and he wonders if you know how much he loves you.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always so greatly appreciated :)


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